"Such an injury, however," declared the cavalry officer, "I will not do her. Though we may not be on the best of terms, I will not give her cause to despise me."
"A most praiseworthy determination!" exclaimed the dealer, warmly. "But may I ask whether you are thinking of marrying, and so wish to put another portrait in the old one's place? In that case, at what price would you part with this Miss Danaë?"
Richard made an impatient movement. "I have already told you that I will not sell the picture," said he. "I demand it back."
"Well, well, no offence," returned the other, soothingly. "I didn't presume to offer you any ten or twenty florins for it; that would be an insult to a Richard Baradlay. But, how about an exchange for some other beautiful picture,—some mythological study? I have a large collection to choose from."
Richard laughed in spite of himself. "No, friend Solomon," said he, "we can't make a trade to-day. I will not give the Danaë in exchange for any picture, however beautiful or mythological. I won't exchange it for all the world."
"Well, well, why so positive? Supposing we should find something, after all. Let's look around a bit; it won't cost us anything."
So saying, the old dealer drew his guest toward the pile of unframed portraits leaning against the wall in a corner, and began to turn them over, one by one. Suddenly the young man at his side uttered a passionate interjection.
"Aha!" cried the Jew, in triumph; "have we found something at last worth hunting for?" And he drew out the picture that had caused the other's hasty exclamation, dusted it with his sleeve, and held it up to the light, where Richard could see it.
"That is my portrait!" cried the young man.
"Yes, to be sure, it is," replied the other. "It has been here six months or so. Miss Danaë, as you see, was less scrupulous than you, and she sold it to me half a year ago. Five silver florins was the price I paid for it."
"And what will you take for the picture now?"
"This picture? Your own picture? As I have already said, I'll give it in exchange."
"Done!" cried Richard.
"Ah, Captain, you are too hasty in closing a bargain," said the old man. "Be more cautious. Any one but old Solomon would be likely to take advantage of you. You might have made me pay you something to boot."
"Send home my picture, and I shall be glad enough to wash my hands of the whole affair," returned Richard. "After that you may squeeze Miss Danaë for a million, as far as I am concerned."
"Oh, Captain," protested the Jew, in an injured tone, "Solomon never does that sort of thing; he always does what is right and just. Every man knows his worth, and Solomon is content with whatever price is named. He is no extortioner. Look here, just to show you how fair I am, I want to call your attention to the frame. We agreed to exchange the pictures, but how about the frame?"
"What frame?"
"Why, the frame to the Danaë. She sent meyour portrait without any frame. Probably she used it for another picture. So you see the frame to your Danaë isn't included in the bargain."
The old man's anxiety to be fair began to vex Richard. "Oh, don't worry about the frame!" he cried, impatiently. "Surely you don't want me to insist on your paying five florins for it?"
"Well, well, why waste so much noble wrath?" rejoined the old dealer. "A paltry five florins, indeed! I made you no such pitiful offer, but I have all sorts of curiosities here that might please Captain Baradlay. Suppose we arrange another little trade. Let us look about for a few moments; it won't cost us anything. I have some splendid weapons here,—all sorts of swords and daggers."
"Thank you, but I am already supplied. I have a whole arsenal of them at home."
"But what if we should find something here that you lack?" persisted the Jew. "It won't cost you a penny to look around. Perhaps we can make another trade, after all. Well, well, I won't mention the frame; I'll merely reckon it in and charge you so much the less for anything here that may take your fancy. You shall pay me something in cash, so that a florin, at least, may pass between us. You see, we have a superstition that, unless the first sale of the day leaves us with a little money in our hand, even though it be but the merest trifle, the whole day willbe unlucky. For that reason the first customer in the morning is likely to make a good bargain on his purchase; for we won't let him go without selling him something, even if we are forced to sell below cost, just so that we see the colour of his money."
Richard yielded perforce to the old man's importunity and followed him into a third room, which was filled with a large assortment of armour and weapons of all nations.
"A regular arsenal, isn't it?" exclaimed Solomon, rubbing his hands complacently.
The young officer felt in his element as, with the eye of a connoisseur, he surveyed the splendid collection. Suddenly his attention was arrested by a brown blade with a simple hilt and without a scabbard. He took it up and examined it more closely.
"Aha!" cried the dealer, much pleased, "you've hit it the first time. I was sure it wouldn't escape the eye of an expert. That is a genuine Crivelli blade, and I have been offered ten ducats for it; but I won't part with it for less than fifteen. It is positively genuine, no imitation."
Richard held the sword up to the light. "That is not a Crivelli," he declared.
The dealer was deeply injured. "Sir," he protested, "Solomon never deceives. When I say it is a genuine Crivelli, you may trust my word for it."Therewith he bent the blade in his trembling hands and caused it to encircle his visitor's waist like a belt. "See there!" he cried triumphantly; "the point kisses the hilt."
"Good!" exclaimed the other, taking the sword from him again; "and now I'll show you a little trick, if you have an old musket that is of no use."
"Take any you choose," returned Solomon, pointing to a pyramid of rusty firearms.
Richard selected one of the heaviest and leaned it obliquely against the pile, barrel upward. "Now stand aside a little, please," said he.
The old Jew drew back and watched the young man curiously. The latter gave the sword a quick swing through the air and brought it down sharply on the musket-barrel, which fell in two pieces to the floor, cleanly severed. Old Solomon was lost in amazement. First he examined the sword-blade, next the divided musket-barrel, and then he felt of Richard's arm.
"Heavens and earth, that was a stroke!" he exclaimed. "When I cut an orange in two I have to try three times before I succeed. You are a man I am proud to know, Captain Baradlay,—a man of giant strength! Such a thick musket-barrel, and cut in two with one stroke as if it were of paper!"
"This sword is not a Crivelli," repeated Richard, as he returned the weapon; "it is a genuine Al-Bohacen Damascus blade, and worth, between you and me, one hundred ducats."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the Jew, with a deprecatory gesture of both hands. "I have named the price as fifteen ducats, no more and no less. That is my figure; but if Captain Baradlay will give the Danaë and frame, with one ducat into the bargain, he may have the sword. I won't sleep another night under the same roof with such a weapon."
Richard smiled. "But the Danaë I have already exchanged for my own portrait," said he.
"Oh, your portrait doesn't go out of my house now for any money," declared the Jew. "This is the first time in my life that a gentleman has said to me: 'Solomon, what you offer me for fifteen ducats is worth not fifteen, but a hundred; it is not a Crivelli, but an Al-Bohacen.' Such another portrait is not to be found in all the world. It is a rarity, it is unique. No, no, that portrait doesn't leave my house; it stays here. Take the sword and pay me a ducat to boot; then we shall be quits."
The young man hesitated. Solomon guessed his thoughts. "Have no fear, sir," he hastened to add reassuringly; "no one shall see your portrait in my house. I will hang it up in my bedroom, of which, since my wife's decease, I am the sole occupant, and which no stranger will ever enter. What do you say? Do you agree to the terms?"
Richard gave his hand to the dealer in sign of assent.
"Very well, then. Now pay me a ducat into the bargain." The old Jew touched the coin with his lips and then dropped it into his long purse. "Let me wrap up the sword for you," he added. "My servant shall deliver it at your door. I am truly delighted to have had the honour; and perhaps it won't be the last time, either. If Captain Baradlay is about to marry, I am always at his service. I deal in all the rare and beautiful things that ever charmed a pair of pretty eyes."
"Thank you," returned Richard; "but she whom I am to marry does not expect to live in a palace."
"So she is a poor girl, is she?" asked the old man. "Tell me, have I guessed aright?"
But the young officer would not tarry longer; he moved toward the door and prepared to take his leave.
"Very well, then," said the dealer; "I won't trouble the captain with any more questions. But old Solomon knows a good many things of which other folks never dream. Captain Baradlay, you are a man of gold—no, I mean of steel, Damascene steel. You know, of course, how that is made: gold and steel are wrought into one. Only remain as you are now,—of gold and steel. I will not pry into your affairs, but let me ask you to remember the oldshopkeeper at Number 3 Porcelain Street. I tell you, an honest man is not met with every day. Remember my words. Some day you will fall in with old Solomon again, and then you will understand what I mean."
"Aranka, my dear girl, if you are looking for your father, you will look in vain; he won't come back. My husband has just received a letter from Pest. He says your dear father's affair is going badly. The consistory forbids his appearing in the pulpit, and he has been summoned to Vienna. He will be sentenced to ten years, at least, and sent to Kufstein. Yes, my dear, there's no help for it. But you mustn't weep so. There is a good Father in heaven, and he will care for the forsaken. God be with you, my dear!"
With this cheerful morning greeting the wife of Michael Szalmás, the notary, saluted the pastor's daughter, as the latter came to the door of the little parsonage for the hundredth time and looked up the street along which she had seen her father drive away two weeks before.
The young girl went back into the house, sat down at her work-table, and resumed her sewing. She had hardly done so, however, when a carriage drove upand stopped in front of the parsonage. She sprang to her feet and hastened joyfully to the door. Was it really her father come back to her? Upon opening the door she started back in surprise. Not her father, but the widowed Baroness Baradlay, dressed in deep mourning, which accentuated her pallor, stood before Aranka.
The girl bowed and kissed with deep respect the offered hand of the high-born lady.
"Good morning, my child," said the visitor. "I have come to have a talk with you on certain matters that must be settled between us."
Aranka offered the lady a seat on the sofa. The widow motioned to the girl to be seated opposite her.
"First," she began, "I must inform you, to my great regret, that your father has got into trouble on account of his prayer at my husband's funeral. I am sorry, but it can't be helped. He will probably lose his pastorate, and that is not the worst of it."
"Then the rumours that we hear are true," sighed the girl.
"Even his personal liberty is in danger," continued the lady. "He may be imprisoned, and if so, you will not see him for a long time."
Aranka bowed in silence.
"What will you do when you are left alone and thrown upon your own resources?"
"I am prepared for the worst," was the calm reply.
"Pray look upon me as your well-wisher and would-be benefactress," said the widow. "My bereavement is the indirect cause of your misfortune, which I should like to make as light for you as possible. Speak to me unreservedly, my child. Whither will you go, and what do you intend to do? I will help you all I can."
"I shall stay here, madam," returned the other, straightening herself with dignity and calmly meeting her visitor's look.
"But you cannot remain here, my dear, for the parsonage will be handed over to another."
"My father owns a small house in the village; I will move into it."
"And how will you support yourself?"
"I will work and earn money."
"But your work will command only a mere pittance."
"I shall be content with little."
"And when your father is held in confinement in a strange city, shall you not wish to be near him? You may count on my aid; I will provide for your support."
"I thank you, madam, but if I must be alone I can endure my loneliness better here than in a strange place; and if I am to be separated from my father,it is all one whether a wall three feet thick parts us, or a distance of thirty miles."
"But I wish to make amends, as far as possible, for the misfortune which my bereavement has indirectly brought upon you. I will make such provision for you as to render you independent. Being a fellow-sufferer in my loss, you shall also share a portion of my wealth. Put your trust in me."
The girl only shook her head, without speaking.
"But pray remember," pursued the baroness, "that good friends forsake us in misfortune, and all are but too prone to censure the unfortunate, if only as an excuse for withholding their aid. You are young and beautiful now, but sorrow ages a person very rapidly. In a new environment you would meet with new people, while here every word and look is sure to injure and distress you. Accept my proffered assistance, and you shall at all times find a friend and protectress in me."
At this the girl rose to her feet. "I thank you, madam," said she, "for your kindness; but I shall remain here, even if I have to go into service in some peasant's family in order to earn my bread. You know the history of this ring,"—showing the ring which she wore on the little finger of her left hand. "This ring holds me here, immovable. He who placed it on my finger said to me, as he did so: 'I am going out now into the world as a wanderingpilgrim; I am driven forth; but whithersoever fate may lead me, I shall circle around this spot as a planet about its sun. Do you, however, stay here. I shall come back to you some day. Therefore, madam, you will understand that I cannot go away; that no promises, no threats can move me. I will suffer want, if I must, but I will remain here."
Baroness Baradlay now rose from her seat also, and took in her own the girl's hand on which was the ring. "Do you, then, love my son?" she asked; "and don't you believe that I love him too? One of us must give him up. Which shall it be?"
Aranka, in despair, sought to free her hand; but the other held it fast. "Oh, dear madam," she cried, "why do you ask me that question? Whichever one of us dies first will give him up. Do you wish to make me take my own life?"
The widow released Aranka's hand and stood looking into her eyes with a kindly smile. "No," she replied, "I wish him to belong to both of us. He shall be yours, and you shall be mine. You shall be my daughter. Come home with me and keep me company until my son returns; then you shall love each other, while I will content myself with what crumbs of love you may have to spare."
The young girl could not believe her ears; she thought she must be dreaming. "Oh, madam," shecried, "what you say is too beautiful to be true. I cannot understand it."
The baroness sighed. "Is my face then so cold," she asked, "and my voice so chill, that you cannot think me capable of wishing your happiness? But I will convince you." So saying, she drew the girl to her side on the sofa and took a letter from her bosom. "Look here," said she, "I have just received a letter from Russia, from my son, whom I have called home from St. Petersburg. I restrained my desire to open this letter, and brought it to you, that you might open it and read it to me. Are you aware what that means in a mother?"
Aranka bowed her head and touched the other's hand with her lips.
"There, take the letter," said the baroness, "and read it aloud. You know the writing?"
Aranka received the letter, but had no sooner looked at the address than the glad smile vanished from her face. She shook her head and turned her large eyes with surprised inquiry upon the baroness.
"What is the matter?" asked the latter.
"That is not his writing," stammered the girl.
"What do you say?" demanded the other. "Let me look again; I ought to know my son's handwriting. That is hisB; that strong downward stroke, the manly firmness in every letter—"
"Are very cleverly imitated," interrupted Aranka, completing the sentence.
"But look again," urged the baroness; "the very words of the address—à ma très-adorable mère—can only have been written by my son. Open the letter and you will be convinced."
A look of joy lighted up the young girl's face when the beginning of the letter met her eyes. "That is really his writing,—'My dear mother.'"
"There, didn't I tell, you so!" declared the other in triumph.
But, as when a cloud suddenly passes over the sun, Aranka's bright face lost its radiance the next moment.
"What is it this time?" asked the baroness.
"Only those first three words are in his hand; the rest is written by some one else, and in French."
"By some one else? Oh, read quickly!"
The letter trembled in the girl's hands. "'Dear madam,'" she read; "'forgive the well-meant deception committed by me on the cover of this letter. To spare you unnecessary alarm, I have imitated my friend's handwriting—for which I must go to the galleys if you betray me. Ödön wished to write himself, but after the first three words the pen fell from his hand. He is still very weak. Don't be alarmed, however. He was in great danger, but is now happily on the road to recovery. In two weeks more he will be able to resume his journey.'"
"He was in great danger!" exclaimed the anxious mother. "Oh, read on, read on!" Despite her own agitation, she did not fail to note how deeply the girl was affected. Aranka was forced to use the utmost self-command in order to go on with the letter.
"'I will write you everything without reserve, just as it occurred. When Ödön received your letter calling him home, he dropped everything and hastened to set out. I resolved to accompany him as far as the border, but would that I had not! Then he would have stopped over at Smolensk, and would not have been overtaken by a snow-storm; we should not have been chased by wolves and compelled to save our lives by skating for two hours down the Dnieper.
"'Your son Ödön, my dear madam, is a son to be proud of. When one of my skates came off in the course of our headlong flight, and I was left helpless by the accident, he turned, single-handed, against our pursuers, and, with dagger and pistols, warded them off while I buckled on my skate again. He killed four of the pack, and I owe it to him that I am now alive.'"
This praise of her son brought a flush of pride to the mother's cheek; but she saw that the maiden's colour left her face entirely as she read on, and that her agitation nearly made her drop the letter. Thegirl's love was not that of the Spartan mother, and the heroic deed of daring dismayed her while it delighted the other.
"'Then we resumed our flight, and it was a race for life, with a pack of two hundred wolves at our heels.'"
"Heavens!" exclaimed the mother, herself now greatly alarmed. Aranka read on with halting accents.
"'We were nearing a place of refuge,—a military guard-house,—when we came to a dangerous spot, where some fishermen had cut a hole in the ice. Not noticing the place, as it was frozen over with a thin sheet of ice, we broke through and sank.'"
"Merciful God!" cried the baroness, losing her self-control. Aranka sank back in a faint and was with difficulty restored to consciousness by the ministrations of her companion. At length the two, holding the letter before them both, read on in silence.
"My amulet saved my life. It was a parting gift from my mother, and I had tried to induce my friend to wear it, but he would not. 'My stars are my protection,' said he, and confessed that his stars were loving women's eyes. When we had been rescued from our cold bath by the fishermen, I remained constantly by Ödön's side until he was able to answer my question, 'Do your stars still shine upon you?' 'All four of them,' said he."
At this each of the readers felt the electric thrill that ran through the other.
"Ödön was taken with a fever as a result of this mishap, but he is now happily over the worst of it. I am at his side night and day. This morning he was determined to write a letter, but it was too much for him, as you see. I was obliged to take the pen and write for him. He is entirely out of danger, and in two weeks we shall resume our journey. Until then I beg Ödön's stars not to weep on his account; for under Russian skies star-tears turn to snow, and of snow we have already more than enough."Leonin Ramiroff."
"Ödön was taken with a fever as a result of this mishap, but he is now happily over the worst of it. I am at his side night and day. This morning he was determined to write a letter, but it was too much for him, as you see. I was obliged to take the pen and write for him. He is entirely out of danger, and in two weeks we shall resume our journey. Until then I beg Ödön's stars not to weep on his account; for under Russian skies star-tears turn to snow, and of snow we have already more than enough.
"Leonin Ramiroff."
The two pairs of stars looked at each other and beamed with heavenly joy. Baroness Baradlay drew Aranka to her and kissed her on the forehead, whispering tenderly: "My daughter!"
Some one was expected at the castle: a letter had been received from Ödön—this time written by his own hand and mailed at Lemberg—announcing in advance his early arrival. In the afternoon the baroness ordered her carriage and drove to meet her son. Halting at Szunyogos, she there awaited his coming. Ödön arrived promptly at the appointed time. The meeting of mother and son was tenderly affectionate.
"How you frightened me with your accident!" exclaimed the baroness, half in reproach.
"That is now happily over," rejoined Ödön, kissing his mother. "We have each other once more."
Entering his mother's carriage, the young man proceeded without delay, in her company, to Nemesdomb. After he had exchanged his travel-stained clothes for fresh garments, his mother led him into his father's apartments.
"These rooms," said she, "will now be for your use. You must receive the people that come to visit us. Henceforth you are master here and willexercise that supervision over the estate which it so sadly needs. Our house enjoys great repute in the county, and you must decide what position you will take, what circle of acquaintances you will gather around you, and what part you will play as leader. Have you taken thought that as eldest son you will be called upon to assume the lord-lieutenancy of the county, which has so long been in our family?"
"An administrator, as I am told, now sits in the lord lieutenant's chair," observed the son.
"Yes," replied the mother, "because the actual lord lieutenant was an invalid and unable to preside in person over the county assemblies. But you are well and strong, and it rests with you to see that no one usurps your rights."
Ödön looked into his mother's eyes. "Mother," said he, "it was not for this reason that you called me home."
"You are right. I had another motive. I must tell you that your father left directions in his will that, six weeks after his death, I should give my hand in marriage to the administrator. A betrothal ceremony, accordingly, is the immediate occasion of the coming together of our acquaintances. Your father wished our house to gain a new support, able to bear the burden that will be imposed upon it."
"If it was my father's will and is yours also—" began the son.
"Is my will, then, of supreme authority with you?" asked the mother.
"You know that it is my highest law," was the reply.
"Very well. Now I will tell you what my will really is. The house of Baradlay needs a master and a mistress,—a master to command and guide, a mistress with power to win hearts. A master it will find in—you."
Ödön started in surprise.
"You will be the master, and your wife the mistress, of this house."
The young man sighed heavily. "Mother, you know this cannot be," said he.
"Will you not marry?"
"Never!"
"Make no such rash vow. You are but twenty-four years old. You were not born to be a Carthusian monk. The world is full of pretty faces and loving hearts, and even you are sure to find one for yourself."
"You know there is none among them for me," returned the young man.
"But what if I have already found one?"
"Your quest has been in vain, mother."
"Say not so," rejoined the other, tenderly drawing her son to her side. "Can you pass judgment without first seeing? She whom I have chosen is good and beautiful, and loves you fondly."
"She may be as beautiful as a fairy and as good as an angel, with a heart more full of love than even your own; yet I care not to see her."
"Oh, do not speak so rashly; you might repent it. I am sure you will retract your words when you see her face. Come, I will show it to you in the next room."
"It will have no effect on me," declared Ödön.
The mother led her son to the door and let him open it and enter first. There stood Aranka, trembling with expectant happiness.
Hastening to her own room, the baroness drew from her portfolio the memorable document dictated to her by her dying husband, and underscored with a red pencil the lines referring to the event which that day had witnessed.
"Thus far it is accomplished," she said to herself.
It was no longer a secret, but was in everybody's mouth, that six weeks after the funeral there was to be a betrothal ceremony in the Baradlay house, and the latter was, they said, to receive a new name. Friends and neighbours from the country around had been invited in the baroness's name to a family festival.
There was a great bustle of expectation when it was announced that the hero of the day, Benedict Rideghváry, was coming, seated in a brand-new coach which was drawn by five splendid horses. On the box was perched a magnificent hussar, who sprang down to open the carriage door and to help the great man alight with all the dignity demanded by his lofty rank and the importance of the occasion.
"My dear sir," one of the administrator's friends hastened to announce to him, with considerable concern in his tone, "I notice a good many strange faces in there."
"Very likely, Zebulon," answered the administrator, briefly.
"That is, I know the faces well enough," explained the other, "but the people are strangers to me."
"I don't understand," returned Rideghváry, with a laugh.
"Don't understand?" repeated Zebulon Tallérossy impatiently; "but you will understand as soon as you are pleased to look around. The hall is full of people belonging to the opposition; we know them, but we are not on terms of acquaintance with them."
The great man now found the matter worthy of his attention, but did not allow it to cause him undue concern. The principal men of the county, he said to himself, had come to pay their compliments to the son and heir, without regard to party. It was merely a conventional form, and was, he felt sure, entirely without political significance. Nevertheless, he would have preferred not to meet in that house his inveterate opponent at the Green Table, Tormándy; but the Baradlay mansion was on that day open to all comers, of whatever party.
Among the early arrivals was the much-persecuted priest, the Reverend Bartholomew Lánghy, Aranka's father, whose appearance was a surprise to many of the guests. His bearing was that of one whose part in the festivities of the day was to be of no small importance. Indeed, the preparations for a grandfunction were so manifest on every side that Rideghváry's good friend, Zebulon Tallérossy, soon came to him for further information.
"So there is to be a grand ceremony, is there?" he asked.
"Certainly," was the reply; "the bridegroom's spokesman goes to the bride's representative and makes formal petition for her hand in marriage. Receiving a favourable reply, he returns to the bridegroom, the double doors are thrown open, and the retinue of ladies enters with the bride at its head. Then comes the rest of the ceremony."
"Ah, that will be a fine spectacle."
The two gentlemen then went in quest of Count Paul Gálfalvy, whom the administrator had chosen to act for him in this important matter. After shaking hands, they began to exchange witticisms over the great number of their political opponents who had assembled there to witness their enemy's triumph. Thus talking and laughing, they failed to note that Tormándy was at that moment engaged in earnest consultation with the Reverend Bartholomew Lánghy. They were therefore unpleasantly surprised when Tormándy's stentorian voice fell on their ears, imposing a sudden hush on all present.
"Silence in the hall, gentlemen!" he cried. "We all know to what a glad festival we are this day invited. A new sun has risen over the house ofBaradlay in the person of its new head, to whom, both for his own sake and for that of our fatherland, we heartily wish long life and prosperity. The bridegroom, whom Providence has called to be the head of this house in the vigour of his youth,—"
"He puts it rather strongly," commented Rideghváry to himself.
"—has commissioned me as his spokesman—"
"What's that?" exclaimed Rideghváry and his friends, looking at one another in amazement.
"—to ask the representative of the bride whether he gives his consent to the desired union."
By this time the administrator and those at his side were fairly dumb with astonishment. If Tormándy was spokesman for the bridegroom, what part was Paul Gálfalvy supposed to play? And who was to reply for the bride? The superintendent was expected to discharge that function, but he was nowhere to be seen. The confusion became still worse confounded when the Reverend Bartholomew Lánghy stepped forward in response to Tormándy's address, and in clear tones thus made answer:
"Those ordained of heaven for each other let naught but death put asunder. Let them who are already one in love be joined together in holy matrimony."
"The parson is crazy!" exclaimed Zebulon in utter bewilderment.
But the solution of the enigma was not long delayed. The double doors at the farther end of the hall were thrown open and the procession of ladies entered, led by the widow Baradlay, who presented Aranka Lánghy to the assembled company as the bride. It was a beautiful sight,—the elder lady in a trailing black gown, a garnet diadem in her hair, and a long-unwonted smile lighting up her face and giving her the aspect of a beautiful queen; and the fair young bride at her side, in robe of white with white hyacinths for her ornaments and a modest blush adding its charm to her sweet maidenly dignity. Each type of beauty, so entirely opposite in character, was perfect in its kind.
There was a murmur of surprise and admiration among the guests, and all pressed forward in eager expectancy. A marble table with a gold plate on it stood near the folding doors. Over the plate was spread a lace napkin. The bridal party took their places at this table, and the priest, Aranka's father, removed the napkin from the plate, revealing two simple gold rings. One of these he then put on Ödön's finger, and the other on Aranka's. Finally he placed the bride's hand in the groom's. No word was spoken, there was nothing but this simple ceremony; but it was impressive in the extreme. The whole company broke into cheers, and even Zebulon Tallérossy caught himself shouting to the full capacityof his lungs; he only recognised his mistake upon meeting the glance of the administrator, who looked at him with severe disapproval, whereupon the other endeavoured to atone for his misplaced enthusiasm by acting on a brilliant suggestion that suddenly occurred to him.
"So there is to be a double betrothal," he remarked, blandly, to the would-be bridegroom; but the latter only turned his back upon him with a muttered imprecation.
Administrator Rideghváry was the first to take his departure; but before he went he had a final interview with the woman whom he had hoped to claim as his bride that day.
"Madam," said he, as he bade her farewell, "this is the last time I shall have the happiness to be the guest of the Baradlay family. I should not have believed the greatest prophet, had he foretold to me this morning what was about to occur. And yet I myself am not without the spirit of prophecy. You, madam, and your son have deviated from the course laid down for you in his dying hour by that great man, your husband and my sincere friend. That course he communicated to me before broaching the matter to you. You have chosen the very opposite path to that which he opened for you, and I beg you to remember in future what I now say: the way you have chosen leads upward, but the height to which it leads is—the scaffold!"
Three days after the betrothal a county assembly was held under the presidency of Administrator Rideghváry.
At an early hour the white feathers and the black—the badges of the Progressive and the Conservative parties respectively—began to appear. But not only were white and black feathers conspicuous; loaded canes, also, and stout cudgels were seen peeping out from overhanging mantles, to be brought forth in case some convincing and irrefutable argument should be needed in the heat of debate.
Punctually at nine o'clock Rideghváry called the meeting to order. The Progressives had planned an energetic protest against an alleged unconstitutionality in the administration, and their best speakers were primed for the occasion, hoping to bring the matter to a vote. The Conservatives, on their part, had summoned to their aid all the most tiresome and long-winded speakers to be found in the neighbouring counties, to kill the motion.
Nevertheless, the white feathers held their ground, being determined to sit the meeting out if it lasted all night, and well knowing that, the moment the chairman should note any preponderance of blacks in the hall, he would put the question to vote and it would be lost. Therefore they kept their places patiently until it came the turn of their chief orator, Tormándy, to speak.
When he rose to address the assembly, the black feathers seemed to unite in an effort to silence him, disputing his every statement and making constant interruptions. But Tormándy was not to be disconcerted. If a hundred voices shouted in opposition, his stentorian tones still made themselves heard above the uproar. In the heat of debate it could not but occur that an occasional word escaped the speaker's lips that would have been called unparliamentary in any other deliberative body, and a repetition of the offence would have necessitated the speaker's taking his seat. Not so here, however. As soon as Tormándy's ardour had betrayed him into the utterance of an unusually insulting expression, Tallérossy and his comrades immediately set upon him, like a pack of hounds after the game, and called out in concert: "Actio, Actio!" Thereupon the assembly,stante sessione, passed judgment on the case and imposed a fine.
Tormándy, however, was not so easily put down.Coolly drawing out his pocketbook, he threw down two hundred florins,—the usual fine,—and continued his philippic. Upon a second interruption of the same kind, he merely threw down another two hundred, without pausing in his speech. And so he continued his oration, interspersed with occasional invectives, until he had emptied his pocketbook and surrendered his seal ring and his insignia of nobility in pledge of payments still lacking. His speech, however, was finished; he had succeeded in saying what he had to say, to the very last word. But his concluding sentences were drowned in an uproar. Deafening huzzas on one side, and shouts of "Down with him!" on the other, turned the meeting into a veritable pandemonium, each party trying in vain to drown its opponents' cries.
Meanwhile the presiding administrator sat unmoved, listening to the uproar as an orchestra conductor might listen to the performance of his musicians.
The customary tactics of the Conservatives had failed. In the first place, there were more white feathers than black in the hall. Secondly, the former were not to be routed from their position either by the high temperature of the room,—it would have almost hatched ostrich eggs,—or by the pangs of hunger, or by the long-winded harangues of their opponents. Thirdly, they refused to be silenced by any fines; they paid and spoke on. Fourthly, bothparties seemed disinclined to begin a fight,—a diversion which hitherto had commonly resulted in the white feathers abandoning the field and taking flight through doors and windows. A fifth expedient still remained,—the adjournment of the meeting.
Rideghváry rang his bell, and was beginning to explain, in a low tone, that the excessive noise and confusion made further debate impossible, when suddenly he found himself speaking amid a hush so profound that one could have heard a pin drop.
"To what noise and confusion does the chairman refer?" asked Tormándy, with a smile.
Rideghváry perceived that the meeting was under other control than his own. The white feathers had received orders to hush every sound the moment they heard the chairman's bell; their opponents, observing that their leader was trying to make himself heard, would voluntarily become silent. Thus it was that the chairman found himself completely outwitted.
"I admit, there is no noise now," said he, "but as soon as the debate is resumed, the uproar will begin again, and therefore I claim the right, as presiding officer, to adjourn the meeting."
But not even then did the result follow which he had expected. The storm did not break out again; the emergency had been foreseen, and all his stratagems were too well known to catch his enemies napping.
Tormándy first broke the silence. "Mr. President," said he, rising and calmly addressing the chair, "I beg to propose that, if the chairman declines to preside longer over this meeting, we proceed to elect a substitute, after which we will continue our debate."
A hundred voices were raised in approval of this suggestion, and as many against it. The cries increased until confusion and uproar were again supreme. Assuming a stern expression and leaning forward over his table, Rideghváry tried to make himself heard.
"This is an open affront," he declared, "a violation of the law. But it lies in my power to put an end to such unbridled license. If the members oppose the adjournment of the meeting I shall call for their expulsion by force of arms."
"We will stand our ground," shouted back Tormándy, crossing his arms and facing the administrator defiantly.
But the latter had resources still in reserve. Summoning the sheriff, he bade him clear the hall, whereupon that officer threw open the folding doors behind the president's chair and revealed a body of men standing there with drawn swords, ready to do his bidding. Both the sheriff and his posse were creatures of the administrator.
In the first moment of surprise every one thought this must be a joke of some sort, so many years hadpassed since swords had been drawn in a county assembly. But when one and another zealous patriot was seen to fall wounded beside the green table, and bloody blades were brandished before their eyes, all took fright in earnest. The next moment, however, the scene changed. Some of the young Progressives drew their swords and ranged themselves against the sheriff's posse. Such a clashing of steel and din of battle then ensued as had never before been heard in a meeting of that kind,—and all under the eye of the presiding officer, and, apparently, with his approval.
But what speedily followed was not so much to his liking. The valiant young wearers of the white feather soon succeeded in driving the sheriff and his force into a corner, where they struck the swords out of their hands, and sent the men themselves flying through the windows. At that moment a newcomer opened the door and entered the hall.
It was Ödön Baradlay. In his rich mourning attire, and with stern displeasure on his brow, he looked like an angry god. Without uncovering,—whether from forgetfulness or design,—he advanced to the president's chair, his face flushed with wrath and his eyes flashing resentment. Rideghváry eyed him askance, like the jackal that suddenly encounters a tiger in the forests of India.
"I hold you responsible for this shameful occurrence, which will stand as a disgrace to our countrybefore the world," declared Ödön, sternly confronting the occupant of the chair.
"Me responsible?" cried Rideghváry, his voice betraying a mixture of anger, haughtiness, alarm, and astonishment.
"Yes, you!" repeated the other, and, laying his hand on the back of the president's chair, he shook it in the excess of his wrath. "And now leave this seat," he continued. "This is the chair that my ancestors have occupied, and only during my father's illness were you authorised to take his place. The lord lieutenant is well again."
At these words there was an outburst of cheers in every part of the hall,—yes, in every part. Those familiar with Hungarian political assemblies will recall many a similar instance where one fearless stroke has gained the admiration and support of all parties. Likes and dislikes, political prejudices and private interests, are all forgotten, and the whole assembly is swept off its feet as one man—whither, no one asks.
Such a miracle was wrought on the present occasion. Rideghváry read only too plainly in the faces of his partisans and hirelings that his rule was at an end. Here was no place for him now. Pale with shame and fury, he rose from his chair. With one look of wrath and hatred at the assembly, he turned to Ödön and, with lust for revenge in his tones, muttered between his teeth:
"This is the first step to that height of which I have warned you."
Ödön measured him with a look of scorn. He knew well enough from his mother what height was meant, but he deigned no reply.
The door closed upon the administrator, and the young lord lieutenant took the president's chair amid the huzzas of all present. Then at length he removed his fur cap. His action had been, it must be admitted, unconstitutional, since he had not yet been installed as lord lieutenant, and so was unqualified to assume the duties of the office. But the enthusiasm which greeted his appearance was warm and genuine, and he accepted it as a sanction of his course. His had been a bold stroke, and one pregnant with results for himself, for his county, for his native land,—yes, for his generation. But it succeeded. His action formed a turning-point in his country's history. Whither the course he had adopted would lead, he knew not, and no little courage was called for in facing its possible issue.
What else occurred in that assembly is simply a matter of history, but the glory of that day belongs to Ödön Baradlay.
It was the 13th of March, 1848, the day of the popular uprising in Vienna.
The Plankenhorst parlours were even on that day filled with their usual frequenters; but instead of piano-playing and gossip, entertainment was furnished by the distant report of musketry and the hoarse cries of the mob. Every face was pale and anxious, and all present were eager to learn the latest news from any newcomer.
At length, toward evening, the secretary of the police department entered. His mere outward appearance indicated but too well that things were going badly for the government. Instead of his official uniform, he wore a common workman's blouse, and his face was pale and careworn. As soon as he was recognised in his disguise, all pressed around him for the latest tidings.
"Well, are you sweeping the streets?" asked the high official of the commissary department, in anxious haste.
"There is no making head against the rascals," answered the secretary in a trembling voice. "I have just left the office and only escaped by means of this disguise. The mob has broken into the building, thrown down the statue of Justice, and wrecked the censor's office."
"But, for heaven's sake, can't more soldiery be sent out against them?"
"We have soldiers enough, but the emperor will not permit any more bloodshed. He is displeased that any lives at all should have been sacrificed."
"But why ask his permission? He is too tender-hearted by far. Let the war department manage that."
"Well, you go and tell them how to do it," returned the secretary petulantly. "What is to be done when the soldiers fire in such a way that a whole platoon volley fails to hit a single man? In St. Michael Square I saw with my own eyes the cannoneers stick their slow-matches into the mud, and heard them declare they wouldn't fire on the people."
"Heavens! what will become of us?"
"I came to give you warning. For my part, I believe the people have fixed upon certain houses as objects of their fury, and I would not pass the night in one of them for all the Rothschild millions."
"Do you think my house is one of the number?"asked Baroness Plankenhorst. The only reply she got was a significant shrug of the shoulders.
"And now I must hasten away," concluded the secretary. "I have to order post-horses and relays for the chancellor."
"What! has it come to that already?"
"So it seems."
"And do you go with him?"
"I shall take good care not to remain long behind. And you too, madam, I should advise at the earliest opportunity—"
"I will consider the matter," returned Antoinette composedly, and she let him hurry away.
Jenő Baradlay never left his room all that day. The brave who laugh at danger little know the agony of fear that the timid and nervous must overcome before resolving to face peril and rush, if need be, into the jaws of death. Finally, at nine o'clock in the evening, his anxiety for Alfonsine's safety impelled him to seek her. With no means of self-defence, he went out on the street and exposed himself to its unknown perils. What he there encountered was by no means what he had, in the solitude of his own room, nerved himself to face. Instead of meeting with a violent and raging mob, he found himself surrounded by an exultant throng, drunk with joy and shouting itself hoarse in the cause of "liberty."Jenő's progress toward his destination was slow, but at last he managed to push his way into the street where the Plankenhorst house was situated. His heart beat with fear lest he should find the building a mass of ruins. Many a fine residence had that day fallen a sacrifice to the fury of the mob.
Greatly to the young man's surprise, however, upon turning a corner he beheld the house brilliantly illuminated from basement to attic, two white silk banners displayed from the balcony, and a popular orator standing between them and delivering a spirited address to the crowd below.
Jenő quite lost his head at this spectacle, and became thenceforth the mere creature of impulse. Reaching the steps of the house, he encountered nothing but white cockades and faces flushed with triumph, while cheers were being given for the patronesses of the cause of liberty by the throng before the house. Pushing his way into the drawing-room, he saw two ladies standing at a table and beaming with happy smiles upon their visitors. With difficulty he assured himself that they were the baroness and her daughter. The former was making cockades out of white silk ribbon, with which the latter decorated the heroes of the people, fastening bands of the same material around their arms. And meanwhile the faces of the two ladies were wreathed in smiles.
The young man suffered himself to be swept alongby the crowd until Alfonsine, catching sight of him, gave a cry of joy, rushed forward, threw her arms about his neck, kissed him, and sank on his breast, exclaiming:
"Oh, my friend, what a joyful occasion!" and she kissed him again, before all the people and before her mother. The latter smiled her approval, while the people applauded and cheered. They found it all entirely natural. Their shouts jarred on Jenő's nerves, but the kisses thrilled him with new life.
In the days that followed, Jenő Baradlay found it quite a matter of course that he should be at the Plankenhorsts' at all hours, uninvited and unannounced, amid a throng of students, democrats, popular orators, all wearing muddy boots, long swords, and pendent feathers in their caps. He also found nothing strange in the fact that Alfonsine frequently received him in her morning wrapper and with her hair uncurled, that she embraced him warmly on each occasion, and that she took no pains to conceal her endearments either from strangers or from friends. It was a time when everything was permitted.
As the two turned aside one evening in their walk, to join a throng of eager listeners who were being addressed by one impassioned speaker after another, Jenő was startled at seeing his brother Ödön mount the platform as one of the orators of the occasion.He, too, it appeared, was on the side of the people; he was one of the parliamentary speakers who were making their voices heard in favour of popular rights and legislative reform. His speech swept all before it; no one could listen to his words without feeling his heart stirred and his pulse quickened. Alfonsine waved her handkerchief in her enthusiasm, but her companion was suddenly seized with a mysterious fear and dread. What premonition was it that seemed to whisper in his ear the true significance of that elevated platform on which his brother stood?
When the two had returned from their stroll, weary with walking the streets, and Jenő had been dismissed with a good-night kiss, Alfonsine, at last alone with her mother, threw her hat with its tricoloured ribbons into a corner and sank exhausted upon a sofa.
"Oh," she cried, "how tired I am of this horrid world!"
After a troubled night's rest Jenő rose and, telling his servant that he should not return until late in the evening, betook himself to the Plankenhorst residence, thinking thus to avoid all possibility of meeting his brother Ödön, who, he feared, might try to persuade him to return home to their mother.
"Welcome, comrade!" cried Fritz Goldner, chairman of the standing committee, as Jenő entered the drawing-room; "we were just speaking of you. Do you know that our cause is in great danger?"
Jenő had known that from the beginning.
"We must step into the breach," continued the chairman. "The reactionary party is bent on compromising us and bringing disgrace on our patriotism by stirring up the dregs of the people to the most outrageous excesses. The false friends of liberty are inciting the mob to acts of violence and riot against the manufacturing and property-holding classes. Last night the custom-house was burnt and property destroyed in the outlying villages. To-day the riotersare expected to attack the factories and the religious houses within the city limits, and our duty will be to confront them and turn their misguided zeal into proper channels. We have not a moment to lose, but must hasten to meet this movement and rescue our flag from the dishonour with which our false friends are striving to stain it. Let us oppose our breasts to the flood and dam its course with our bodies."
Poor Jenő! To offer his own person as a check to the fury of the mob, and to stand as a target between two fires—that of the rioters on one side, and of the soldiery on the other—was hardly to his liking. But he made haste to assure his friend Fritz of his hearty acquiescence in the plan proposed, and bade him go on ahead; he himself would run home and get his sword and pistols and then follow in a cab. Before Alfonsine he could not betray how little stomach he had for the undertaking.
Gaining the street, he hailed the first empty cab he saw, and hired it for the day, directing the coachman to drive around whithersoever he chose, without halting, except at noon at some outlying inn, and late in the evening at his lodging.
His friends and co-workers in the cause of freedom did not wait for him, but marshalled their forces and pushed forward to check the fury of mob violence that was now gaining fearful headway.
The Granichstadt distillery was a mass of smokingruins. The machinery had been wrecked, the brandy casks rolled into the street and their heads knocked in, whereupon their contents had rushed out over the pavement in a stream that soon caught fire. This blazing Phlegethon, pouring through the streets, had been the salvation of the St. Bridget Convent; for as long as the fiery stream barred the way in that direction, the mob could not offer the nunnery any violence. Yet the rioters were taking measures to overcome this obstacle, and were bringing sand, mud, ashes,—anything that would serve to make a road through the burning flood. At the entrance to the convent, however, a squadron of hussars had been posted early in the morning; its commander was Captain Richard Baradlay.
It was nearly a year since he had changed his quarters and moved out of the city into the barracks in the suburbs. His purpose in making the change had been to devote himself entirely to the duties of his calling. He was no longer seen idling in the town, he attended no balls, paid court to no ladies, but lived wholly with his men, contenting himself with their society, and became one of the most industrious of officers. He had learned from Jenő that Edith was at a boarding-school, to which her aunt had sent her the day after he had asked her hand in marriage; and with this information he was content. The young girl was doubtless well cared for, and atthe proper time he would go and take her away. So why disturb her meanwhile?
In the last few days Captain Baradlay had received six successive and mutually contradictory orders, all relating to the maintenance of order, and each signed by a different hand and valid only until its writer's deposition from office. Finally, the young commander found himself left entirely to his own discretion. He was all night in the saddle, leading his troop hither and thither, but utterly unable to subdue a mob that broke out in one quarter after another and always melted away at his approach, to muster again immediately afterward in another part of the town.
At length the light of the burning distillery had led him in that direction. After drawing up his men across the street and before the entrance to the convent, he was calmly watching the mob's advance, when suddenly a strangely clad figure approached him. A black coat faced with red, black, and gilt, a sash of the same colours, a straight sword with an iron hilt, a broad-brimmed hat adorned with a black ostrich feather,—these were the accoutrements of the stranger, who wore a thin beard and mustache, and was of a bold and spirited bearing, though evidently not of military training. Hastening up to Richard, the newcomer greeted him heartily.
"Good day, comrade!" he cried. "Hurrah for the constitution and public order!"
Richard offered no objection to this sentiment, and the young gallant next extended his hand, which the hussar officer did not refuse.
"I am Fritz Goldner," he explained, without further ceremony, "an officer in the second battalion of the Aula."
"What news do you bring?"
"I heard that a mob was collected here and was likely to bring dishonour on our cause, and so I came to quiet the storm."
The other surveyed him doubtfully. "What, you alone?" he asked. "Heavens and earth, man! I have been doing my best for three days, at the head of my squadron, to put down the mob, and it is growing stronger every minute."
The young hero of the Aula threw up his head proudly. "Yes, I alone will quell the disturbance," he declared.
"I leave you a free hand, comrade," returned Richard; "but I cannot abandon my position, as it would be no easy matter recovering it again."
"Very well, then," assented the other; "you stay here as a passive onlooker. But first may I ask your name?"
"Richard Baradlay."
"Ah, glad to meet you. Your brother and I are good friends."
"My brother Jenő?"
"Yes, he is attached to our headquarters at the Plankenhorsts'."
"Headquarters at the Plankenhorsts'?" repeated Richard, in surprise.
"Yes, indeed. Didn't you know about it? Both of the ladies are most zealous friends of the cause, and they give us the happiest advice and suggestions."
By this time Richard had dismounted and thrown his horse's bridle to old Paul. "So the Plankenhorst ladies are still in the city, are they?" he asked, as he proceeded with Fritz toward the entrance of the convent. "And you say they are friends of the revolutionists. Do you know these women?"
"It is one of our chief concerns to know them," was the reply. "Their past is not unknown to us, but now they declare themselves unconditionally on our side. Nothing catches fire like a woman's heart at the cry of freedom. But our confidence in them is a guarded one. We, too, have our secret police, and all their movements are carefully watched. Should they attempt to open communication with their former friends, we should learn the fact at once and the two ladies would be summarily dealt with. Oh, I assure you, our forces are well organised."
"I haven't a doubt of it. And is my brother Jenő one of your number?"
"One of the foremost. He holds the rank of second lieutenant."
Richard shook his head incredulously.
The mob was meanwhile gradually making a path for itself through the flames of burning brandy, and as the intrepid Fritz caught sight of one form after another through the blue-green fire, he became more and more aware of the magnitude of the task before him. Distinguished from the rabble about him was one man, no less ragged and dirty than his fellows, but of colossal size and brandishing above his head a six-foot iron bar as if it had been a wooden wand. He was pushing his way forward in a sort of blind frenzy. Seeing the hussars, however, drawn up in formidable array, he paused for his comrades to join him, when he raised aloft his powerful weapon and, pointing to the building before them, shouted, in a hoarse, brutal voice: "Into the fire with the nuns!" A bloodthirsty howl answered him from behind.
But suddenly the shrill notes of a bugle were heard above the howling of the mob. It was a signal to the horsemen to hold themselves in readiness for action, and it dampened the ardour of the rioters.
"For heaven's sake," exclaimed Fritz, "don't give the order to attack. We must avoid bloodshed. I will try to make these fellows listen to me."
"Speak, then, in God's name! I will stay at your side," said Richard, as he lighted a cigar and waited for his companion to try the effect of his eloquence on the unruly mob before them.
The convent steps served Fritz as a platform. Addressing his hearers as "brothers," he spoke to them about freedom and the constitution and civic duties, about the schemes of the reactionaries, about their common fatherland and emperor and the glorious days they had just witnessed. Now and then a hoarse outcry from his auditors forced him to pause, and more than once his remarks were punctuated by a flying potato or bit of tile hurled at his head. Richard, too, was hit twice by these missiles.
"Comrade," cried the hussar officer, "I have had quite enough of these potatoes. Wind up your speech as soon as you can and let me try my hand. I shall find a way to make them listen, I promise you!"
"It is a difficult situation," returned Fritz, wiping his brow. "The people have no love for the religious houses; but these nuns are women, and toward women even the revolutionist is chivalrous."
"So I see," rejoined the other dryly, glancing up at the windows of the building, many of which had been shattered by missiles. Fortunately for the inmates, the cells were protected by inner shutters, which were all securely closed.
The rioters now began to pelt the hussars, whose horses were becoming more and more restless. As Fritz opened his mouth to continue his speech, theman with the iron bar began to harangue also, and the people could understand neither of them.
At that moment there appeared from the opposite direction an odd-looking, long-legged student, with three enormous ostrich plumes waving in his hat and a prominent red nose dominating his thin, smooth-shaven face. A tricoloured sash crossed his breast, while a slender parade-sword, girt high up under his arm to prevent his stumbling over it, hung at his side. With a quick step and a light spring, the young man was presently at the side of Richard and Fritz.
"God keep you, comrades!" he cried in greeting. "Calm your fears, for here I am,—Hugo Mausmann, first lieutenant in the second legion. You are hard pressed just now, I can well believe. Friend Fritz is a famous orator, but only in the tragic vein. Tragedy is his forte. But a public speaker must know his audience. Here a Hans Sachs is called for rather than a Schiller. Only make your hearers laugh, and you have carried your point. Just let me give these folks a few of my rhymes, and you shall see them open their eyes, and then their mouths, and all burst out laughing; after that you can do what you will with them."
"All right, comrade," returned Richard; "go ahead and make them laugh, or I shall have to try my hand at making them cry."
Hugo Mausmann stepped forward and made a comical gesture, indicating his desire to be heard. Deliberately drawing out his snuff-box, he tapped it with his finger, and proceeded to take a pinch, an action which struck the spectators as so novel, under the circumstances, that they became silent to a man and thus permitted the speaker to begin his inexhaustible flow of doggerel. With frequent use of such rhyming catchwords as, "in freedom's cause I beg you pause;" "your country's fame, your own good name;" "our banner bright, our heart's delight;" "we're brothers all, to stand or fall,"—he poured out his jingling verse, concluding in a highly dramatic manner by embracing the hussar officer at his side, in sign of the good-fellowship which he described as uniting all classes in the brotherhood of freedom.
"Comrade, you haven't made them laugh yet," said Richard.
Hugo continued his rhymed address, but the people would listen no longer. "Down with the friend of the priests!" sounded from all sides. "Into the fire with the nuns!" And the shower of missiles came thick and fast. An egg hit the speaker on the nose, and filled his mouth and eyes with its contents.
"Give us a rhyme for that, brother!" shouted the successful marksman, and all laughed now in good earnest; but it was the brutal laugh of malice and ridicule at another's discomfiture.
Richard threw his cigar away and sprang down the steps. Fritz intercepted him, and insisted on being heard.